


The Consequences of Being Somewhat Human

by Flywolf33



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Care, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Love Confessions, M/M, Severe coughing, Very sick, WHUMP!Crowley, Whump, caring Aziraphale, fever haze, ineffable husbands, nursing back to health, sick crowley, some vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27200482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flywolf33/pseuds/Flywolf33
Summary: Parting ways with Heaven and Hell has its perks, but it also has its consequences, and even though their former bosses might not have executed them as planned, their decision to head off on their own side might be the death of them yet.TW for severe illnessThis is NOT related to any of my other GO works.I tried to make this light and fluffy and a cute care fic, but then in the third paragraph everything went to Hell because I'm apparently incapable of writing something soft.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 87





	The Consequences of Being Somewhat Human

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah so I wanted to write something cute but as the summary says... I think I'm incapable of that. In the third paragraph it went sideways and by the fifth I was pulling at my hair in frustration because [i]behave, damn you![/i] but I had to see it through. I promise, I'll try to do some fluff soon! 
> 
> Also, this is pneumonia, but given our current worldwide pandemic... be warned that this might be triggering for people who've experienced Covid and I still might take this down again...

It wasn’t so very long ago, Crowley thought, that his standard essence of _being_ would have prevented this from even starting.

“How are you feeling?” Aziraphale asked as he bustled into the room with a tray of tea, toast, and soup. A blanket was draped over one arm and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. At any other time, seeing his forearms would have had Crowley tingling with excitement.

Instead, Crowley coughed viciously, hunching over as the attack wracked his body. He pressed a tissue to his mouth to catch the milky fluid spotted with blood that accompanied such fits. When it finally subsided, Crowley glared up at Aziraphale in answer as he gasped to regain his breath. His body ached and burned, and his lungs felt as if they would tear their way from his throat at any moment.

Aziraphale’s mouth pressed into a pale line, bottom lip trembling as he gently placed the tray on bedside table and tucked the blanket he’d brought over Crowley’s lap, then sat on the edge of the bed.

“You’ve put at least fifteen blankets on me, Angel,” Crowley rasped, then coughed once.

He didn’t answer, opting instead to lay a cold hand on Crowley’s forehead. “You still have a fever,” he murmured.

“No kidding,” Crowley dissolved into another bought of coughing. Tears pricked his eyes.

“You’ll get better; tons of humans get pneumonia every year and are just fine,” Aziraphale said as he reached across Crowley for the bowl of cold water on the other bedside stand. He wrung out a cloth that had been soaking and draped it over Crowley’s forehead as the demon leaned back against the headboard.

“Tons of humans _also_ die from it,” he pointed out.

“Well, yes, but _you’ll_ be fine, even if I can’t miracle you better. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried,” Crowley lied, motioning for his glass of water, which Aziraphale quickly handed to him.

The truth was that Crowley _was_ worried; scared, even. He’d never been sick – demons don’t _get_ sick – and to suddenly get so severely ill so fast concerned him. He was frustrated and in pain and often he was so delirious with fever Aziraphale could do no more than hold his hand and dab his sweat away with the cool cloth.

They’d tried miracles, but their miracle power seemed diminished since Armageddon – not gone, just weaker somehow – and Crowley was too weak to even turn on a light at the moment. Aziraphale had tried regardless, but the holy energy had left the demon a whimpering mess and he got even sicker. They agreed never to try it again.

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale said softly as he took the glass back from Crowley and set it aside.

“Don’t you cry for me,” Crowley rasped, noting the shine in Aziraphale’s eyes. “Don’t you dare.”

Aziraphale swallowed thickly and looked away. “I hate to see you in so much pain,” he said.

“It’s not so-” another fit of coughing interrupted him, forcing him to very nearly fold in half. Crowley involuntarily wrapped his arms around himself as if he could hold his corporation together by doing so. This time it was more violent, and he nearly threw up. “-bad,” he finished lamely, chest heaving as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He realized Aziraphale was holding him, one hand on his back and the other on his shoulder.

“Don’t lie to me, Crowley!” Aziraphale all but wailed, drawing away much to Crowley’s regret. “I can’t bear it.”

“Alright, Angel,” Crowley said, shuddering and fighting down more coughing. He leaned back into his mountain of pillows. “Alright.”

Aziraphale retrieved the soup bowl. “Try to eat.”

“Angel-”

“Please,” he pleaded.

Crowley sighed and shifted to sit more upright, ever at the whims of his angel. “Fine, but don’t blame me if I spill it.”

“I’ll hold the bowl.”

“No, Angel, you are _not_ feeding me-”

“Crowley.”

Crowley held a moment more before breaking. “Fine,” he said again, and allowed Aziraphale to carefully spoon the soup into his mouth. Crowley glowered the whole time, feeling all the more helpless. They only had to pause for a minor coughing fit once.

After he’d eaten, Aziraphale took the dishes back to the kitchen with the promise to return shortly. Crowley wriggled to settle himself better into the stack of pillows holding him upright and tugged the sea of blankets to his armpits.

He was just beginning to fade back into sleep when the next attack hit, tearing through his body with fiery talons. It was the worst one yet, blinding Crowley with pain and the desperate need for air. When it finally ended, he found himself on his side with his head hanging over the bed. The soup was splattered across the floor and side of the bed and he could taste the acid burn of sick.

There was a cool hand resting on his back. Crowley shivered violently as he turned his head. Aziraphale was kneeling on the bed, watching Crowley with wide eyes.

Crowley belated realized his face was wet with tears. He swallowed, throat prickling as if he’d tried to swallow a cactus. “I’m scared,” he finally admitted in a hoarse whisper.

Aziraphale’s eyes welled with tears and his fingers clenched on Crowley’s back. His throat worked, but he said nothing as he helped Crowley sick up, rinse out his mouth and drink, and tuck back under the blankets where he continued to shiver.

“We should go to a hospital,” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley shook his head, which made the world spin around him. Or was he the one spinning? “You know we can’t.”

Aziraphale trembled. “This is agony,” he said. “This is… Is this what Hell is like?”

The absolute _helplessness_ , the raw emotion, the _grief_ , finally broke the last shreds of Crowley’s resolve and he allowed himself to cry. “No,” he rasped as he clasped Aziraphale’s hand between his own. “This is worse.”

The angel broke down, hunched over as he sobbed into his free hand, his other grasping Crowley’s desperately. “Wh-what if you _die?”_ He choked out. “H-Hell won’t ever- ever let you _leave_. You- You’d be _stuck_ there forever!”

It was something Crowley tried not to think about. He had no words to comfort his angel this time; he had no words to comfort _himself_. He could feel himself sliding back into his fevered haze, unable to think, and suddenly the thought that he might never come out of this one seized him with terror. He stiffened, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand so hard it had to hurt, but he didn’t care. All composure was lost to the wind. “You won’t let me,” he gasped, eyes wide as he searched Aziraphale’s face, memorizing every detail in case- “You won’t let me die. Please, don’t let me die!”

Aziraphale’s face filled with panic, but before he could reply Crowley’s eyes rolled into his head and was pulled back into the shadowy depths of his illness.

He heard voices, sometimes, but weather they were memories or hallucinations he did not know. He heard Aziraphale the most and clearest and he tried to call out to him, to beg him to save him, but he never could seem to reach.

“ _I’m here, Crowley_ ,” he heard.

Crowley bobbed between memories and nightmares as though in a river rapid he could not swim from.

 _“His fever’s breaking_ ,” he thought he heard someone say. The voice was familiar, but he couldn’t place her.

_Aziraphale…_

“ _I’m right here. You’re going to be okay.”_

Darkness enveloped him and everything fell quiet.

Crowley’s throat was dry, and when he cracked open his eyes they were glued together by a crusty substance.

“Aziraphale?”

Something squeezed his hand and through cracked eyes he saw the angel sitting beside the bed. “Crowley!” he exclaimed. “Anathema, he’s awake!”

_Anathema?_

The bedroom door swung open and an attractive young woman in an eclectic yet elegant lace dress swept through. She smiled. “How do you feel?” she asked, crossing the room to stand behind Aziraphale.

Crowley swallowed and took an inventory of his body. “Cold,” he said, “and sore.”

Aziraphale snapped and produced another blanket, which he hastily added to the mountain covering the demon.

“That’s to be expected. Your fever broke only yesterday,” Anathema said.

Crowley blinked slowly at her and coughed weakly.

“Hold on.” She whirled around and rushed from the room, quickly returning with a clay jar. Without ado she tugged the blankets down and began unbuttoning Crowley’s pajama top.

“Hey!” he squeaked.

“Sorry,” she said, though she didn’t sound it and she didn’t pause. “I just need your chest.”

Once enough of Crowley’s skin was exposed to the chilly air, Anathema opened the jar and dipped her fingers into a translucent blue substance inside. It smelled strongly of mint, eucalyptus, and something else Crowley couldn’t identify. He hissed slightly when she began spreading it across his bared skin; it was _cold_.

To his surprised, his breathing grew easier even before she finished. He sighed with relief as his shirt was buttoned and the blankets pulled back up. His skin tingled where Anathema had lathered the balm, but he could _breathe_.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“He means thank you,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley glared at him before returning his gaze back to the young woman.

If she was unnerved by his serpent’s gaze, she didn’t show it. “Aziraphale called me,” she said, carefully setting the jar aside and wiping her hands on a towel there. “He was in a panic, shouting that you were dying. Of course I packed up and Newton drove me down as fast as Dick Turpin could go.”

_Dick Turpin?_

“I couldn’t think of anything else,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley swallowed again and glanced at the table, where a full glass of water sat. Aziraphale didn’t miss this. He held Crowley’s head up and helped the demon drink. Once he finished, Crowley grimaced. “I suppose I owe you a thank you.” His voice was still hoarse but talking no longer felt like eating thistle.

“You’re not out of the woods just yet, but I think the worst has passed.” She glanced at Aziraphale. “Newt asked me to call when Crowley woke up. Then I’ll make some soup.” She flounced out of the room and closed the door behind her.

“Quite and abrupt young woman, isn’t she?” Crowley said.

Aziraphale nodded silently, staring at where their hands met. “You kept saying my name.”

“Did I?”

The angel nodded. “You were crying out in your sleep. We didn’t think you were going to wake up.”

Crowley took a deep breath and his eyes fluttered shut. “So did I, to be honest.”

There was a pause, then, “Crowley?”

“I’m not going back to sleep, Angel.” He cracked an eye open and peered at the angel. “The light just hurts my eyes.”

“Right.”

Crowley closed his eye again and took a deep breath, reveling in the fact that he _could_. Every part of him still ached and sometimes he felt the need to cough, but for the most part he _did_ feel better. Whatever Anathema had done, it worked.

“Crowley?”

He hummed.

Aziraphale’s breath hitched. “I love you.”

Crowley’s eyes snapped open and he stared at the angel. Yes, he’d known by now that Aziraphale _must_ love him – his recent actions were proof enough – but he’d never _said_ it. There was a silent agreement not to acknowledge their feelings toward one another, a millennia-old dance they daren’t break.

Until now.

Crowley didn’t realize his mouth was hanging open until he tried to speak. He snapped it shut, swallowed, and tried again. _I love you too, Angel._ “Nngk,” he said instead. He felt himself flush and knew he’d be bright red. He swallowed. “I-I mean, I love you too, Angel.”

Aziraphale’s blush deepened and he looked away, hands twisting around Crowley’s. “I was so frightened… I thought I was going to lose you, having never told you…”

He was still weak, but Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand enough for the angel to notice and look back. “I know, angel. You never had to.”

“Even so.”

“I think I’ll be okay now.” Crowley coughed, but it was nowhere near as bad as it had been. Still, Aziraphale looked alarmed. “I’m alright, angel. I’m not going to get better overnight.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He held it a moment before exhaling. “I know.” He opened his eyes and gave Crowley a watery smile, which the demon returned.

“Anathema came back then, bearing two bowls of soup that had even Crowley’s mouth watering. Aziraphale helped him to sit up, tucking the pillows between his back and the headboard, and tucked a blanket around the shivering demon’s shoulders.

Anathema stayed another two days to make sure Crowley didn’t backslide, then loaded them with medicine and balm and bid them farewell. Crowley recovered slowly but surely over the next few weeks. Aziraphale’s anxiety calmed the longer the demon went without coughing.

Finally, Crowley was able to move around on his own and his strength returned. He looked up at Aziraphale over dinner one night. “Angel,” he said, and Aziraphale looked up. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“Of course, my dear.”

“Let’s never do that again.”

Aziraphale’s lip twitched, and he agreed.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this chapter, please drop a comment! Comments give me life. 
> 
> If you _didn't_ like this chapter, please leave me some constructive criticism so I can improve! 
> 
> Please come visit me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/flywolfwriting) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/heather_wolffe)!


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